


As Long as We're Still Falling

by lifeofwry



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: F/M, Post DA:2, Red Hawke, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-19
Updated: 2019-06-25
Packaged: 2019-10-31 11:19:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 19,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17848460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lifeofwry/pseuds/lifeofwry
Summary: In the aftermath of Kirkwall's mage rebellion, Westa Hawke grapples with the consequences of her choices and struggles to understand her place in the world.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you again to my tireless beta readers @sakkakitty, @flamboyantly-asexual, and of course, my lovely and ever-patient husband.
> 
> Thank you for the first time to new readers who stumble upon this work. This is my first long fic, and I'm thrilled to finally share it here. Please let me know what you think!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Recommended Listening: Billie Marten - Out of the Black

_My dear Westa,_  
  
_I’ve made progress with the nobility these past few weeks. Most now support my claim to the throne, but I still have work ahead of me. However, I am not writing you to update you on diplomacy in Starkhaven._  
  
_Yesterday, an unusual letter arrived bearing the seal of the Kirkwall City Guard. I’ve sent a copy of it along with my own correspondence so that you may look it over. I know Aveline and I haven’t always agreed in the past, but this must be some sort of misunderstanding. Please advise._

_Yours,  
Sebastian Vael_

_p.s. I look forward to the next time we speak in person._

 

“Westa, my dear.” Sebastian pressed a chaste kiss to the back of The Champion’s hand. “I didn’t expect a personal visit, but I can’t say I’m not pleased to see you.”  
  
“Thank you, Sebastian.” She slipped her hand from his. “I thought it better to talk face to face.” Westa smoothed a few melted snowflakes from her silver hair and looked around the study.  
  
“Your hands are freezing, as is the rest of you, I'm sure,” Sebastian commented. “Please, have a seat.” He gestured to a pair of armchairs opposite the fireplace.  
  
“I’d rather not.” She declined his invitation to sit, but she walked over and warmed her hands by the bright fire.  
  
“Oh,” Sebastian was briefly caught off guard, but skipping through small-talk wasn’t uncharacteristic of Hawke. It was one of the things that had both frustrated Sebastian and endeared her to him in the first place. He waited for her to make her point.  
  
“I’m here about the letter.” She didn’t disappoint, removing the folded parchment from one of her many pockets.  
  
“Yes.” Sebastian stood, clasping and unclasping his hands.  
  
“It’s not a mistake,” she told him. She tried to make her delivery less blunt than usual, but she was never skilled at treading lightly or masking the truth. “Aveline thinks you’re a danger to Kirkwall. You’re not to return.”  
  
Sebastian laughed, wide eyed and bewildered. “This can't be right. I’ve done nothing to provoke this.”  
  
“Aveline lists quite plainly why she made her decision,” Hawke replied. “Whether I agree with her or not, she is nothing if not thorough.”  
  
“And do you agree with her?” The color rose in Sebastian’s cheeks as his confusion gave way to anger and shame. Hawke opened and closed her mouth uselessly as she searched for an answer that would be both honest and diplomatic.  
  
“You do!” Sebastian folded his arms across his chest. “Why are you here, then? You could have told me as much in a letter. There was no need to travel all this way simply to insult me.”  
  
“I’m not here to insult you, Sebastian.” Hawke looked out the window, avoiding his gaze. “I just…” she trailed off. “I wanted to see you,” she offered half-heartedly.  
  
“You wanted to see me? See me realize that the people I thought were my friends were biding their time until they could exile me?” He turned his back to her. “Why wait? Aveline has been trying to drive me out of Kirkwall since she met me!” His voice grew louder and more agitated as he continued. “The only thing that ever stopped her was--” He paused in revelation. “You. You did this. You let her do this!” He turned and closed the distance between them in a few strides.  
  
Hawke looked up into Sebastian's face and spoke softly. “It’s a pity the Maker wasted the mind of a brilliant leader by pairing it with the temper of a petulant child.”  
  
“Pity He wasted such blind devotion on an arrogant apostate thug,” Sebastian countered. She wondered whether Sebastian spoke of her devotion to the mage rebellion, to Kirkwall, or to him.  
  
“Blind devotion! You’re the one--” she stepped back, then planted her feet again. “Elthina did nothing but manipulate you and everyone around her.”  
  
“You would do violence to the memory of a dead woman by accusing her-- blaming her for this chaos?” He challenged her.  
  
“This chaos and all the abuses that came before it,” Hawke answered.  
  
“You hold no one else responsible for their own actions?” He searched her eyes earnestly, hunting for something to believe, some way of seeing the world that didn't strip him of any good Elthina had done for him.  
  
“Of all the atrocities committed in Kirkwall, her inaction has the highest body count. None of this would have happened if--” Hawke collected herself, then started again, less angry, but no less certain. “She could have prevented this, and she didn't.”  
  
Sebastian took a seat at the desk, reading and re-reading the document. He ran his hands over his face.  
  
“She’s not a martyr, Sebastian.” Westa tried to say the words tenderly, but frustration frayed the edges of her voice. “She wasn’t even a good woman. She was using you like she used everyone else.”  
  
“To what end?” He asked, directing the question at himself more than Hawke. She answered anyway, telling him what had been weighing on her mind for months.  
  
“The same thing she was always after,” Hawke said. “You would have turned the army of Starkhaven on anyone she’d asked you to.”  
  
Sebastian said nothing, still sitting with his forehead against his hands. He barely shook his head, but Hawke noticed the slight movement.  
  
“You would have,” she persisted. “You had me kill Anders when he could have been put on trial. It might have given Kirkwall's citizens some measure of closure. It might have prevented them from hunting innocent mages and thinking themselves justified.” Her hands trembled as she spoke, but her voice didn't waver.  
  
“We both know he would have run.” Sebastian sat up and looked out the window at the falling snow. His brow furrowed, and Hawke watched his focus drift into memories of that night. She wondered how his perspective could be so vastly different from her own.  
  
“I don’t think so.” She shook her head. “Before Anders was a heretic, he was a healer. He could have protected people, saved lives, then faced the gallows. I believe he would have,” she told him. “People died needlessly because I couldn’t trust you.”  
  
Sebastian looked at her. “What are you talking about?”  
  
“You blackmailed me.” Hawke’s voice cracked, but her pride made her straighten her spine and double down. “You couldn’t bear to kill him yourself, so you forced my hand.”  
  
Sebastian studied her expression for a moment before he spoke. “You really think that little of me?”  
  
Hawke looked at him for a moment and deliberated on what to say. “It doesn’t matter what I think,” she finally answered. “You are the one that made those wild threats in the presence of the Maker and the Guard Captain.”  
  
“I said rash things in a moment of great pain and immeasurable grief.” Sebastian’s words sounded more like an apology than an excuse. He rested his forehead in his hand and avoided Hawke’s eyes. “I thought you knew me better than to really think…” he trailed off.  
  
“I thought I did, too, but I couldn’t risk being wrong,” she said. “I had to take you seriously and believe you would follow through.” She turned away from him. “You have to understand. I can’t keep gambling with other people’s lives when I’m not the one paying the price.”  
  
Hawke meant to leave it at that, but the helplessness she felt when she thought about all the death she was powerless to prevent always turned into fury inside her and overwhelmed her restraint.  
  
“You shouldn’t either.” She faced him again. “You would have sent your own soldiers out to die and razed all of Kirkwall in a hunt for one man, and you would have called it holy, thought it divine retribution.” She held back her most scathing evaluations. She didn’t want to hurt him more than she already had, and she knew such petty insults would do just that and nothing more. She took a deep breath and continued.  
  
“Aveline used to tell me your bid for the throne would make you a target and put bystanders at risk. That may be true, but I didn’t think it was fair to turn you away for that alone,” she explained. “But if you cannot control your temper for the sake of Kirkwall’s citizens, then your presence endangers them.” She paused when his eyes darted back up to hers, but she finished her thought. “You say all men are the work of our Maker’s hands, yet you would place the lives of an entire city full of people beneath that of one woman who was completely unworthy of your loyalty and admiration.”  
  
“But you are worthy?” Sebastian laughed bitterly and stood up. “Is that it? You would rather be the one woman to have garnered a Prince’s affections?”  
  
Hawke felt her eyes sting as she held back an unexpected rush of tears.  
  
“Has your companionship been nothing more than a political maneuver, as well?” He voiced the fear that had followed over his shoulder every step he took by Westa’s side, every time he asked her for counsel and her response had been the same. Go to Starkhaven. Take back what’s yours.  
  
“Sebastian, you know that’s not--” she protested, regretting having driven the conversation back to the Grand Cleric. Elthina’s passing was a fresh wound, and convincing Sebastian that her intentions were less than pure had always been a losing battle.  
  
“You want to protect the innocent people of Kirkwall from me? Then there need be no further involvement.” He tossed the letter into the fireplace.  
  
“Sebastian--” Hawke reached toward him, then thought better of it and moved toward the door.  
  
“Kirkwall will be safer, and I will be free from undue influence. I suppose I should thank you for that, considering I’m so highly suggestible, as you’ve been gracious enough to point out.”  
  
Sebastian regained his composure and sat in front of the fire. “I know my flaws, Hawke.” He looked over at her. “I am many things, but I’m not a tyrant, and I’m not a fool,” he said. “Elthina was the only person who ever cared for me. Let me mourn her, and forgive me if I’d rather not accept that there has, in fact, been no one that cared at all.”  
  
She turned back to him, surprised by the impersonal way he addressed her. Not the formal, Champion; or the familiar, Westa; but the mundane. Hawke.  
  
Some part of Sebastian knew his judgement of her wasn’t entirely fair. Hawke had been a constant friend when he had few. Still, if Starkhaven’s coup taught him one thing, it was that even the closest of friends weren’t above suspicion. If anything, the nearer someone was to him, the more dangerous they had the potential to be. Hawke was perhaps his closest friend, and Sebastian had watched her prove time and time again exactly how dangerous she was to those who crossed her.  
  
“She was not the only person who’s ever cared for you,” Westa told him, “but if nothing I've done this far has convinced you, nothing I say now will change your mind.”  
  
Sebastian stared dull-eyed into the fire and didn’t look up as Westa closed the door behind her.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Recommended Listening: George Ogilvie - Foreign Hands

In the weeks leading up to Sebastian's coronation, the prevailing sentiment among those who offered their congratulations was relief. The return of a Vael to the throne meant that life in Starkhaven would proceed as it had. It meant they wouldn't be plunged back into the constant petty warring and bleak peasantry they'd only heard history’s warnings of. There were still tense murmurs among the citizenry, but at least Sebastian was a better hope than his blustering, dim-witted cousin. 

Sebastian held himself together through these meetings and processions with a smile more carefully polished than his blinding ceremonial armor. He had, in his younger days, entertained fantasies of Starkhaven’s throne and possible paths to it. He had wanted the crown, but never like this. 

* * *

“You only win because I have more important things to do than sit around all day fiddling with my weapon.” Sebastian’s eldest brother had challenged him to a competition yet again, and couldn’t hold back his displeasure at being one-upped by his baby brother, as always.

Their middle brother looked uncomfortable to be in the midst of another of their arguments. “Abe loses on purpose so he doesn’t have to hear your shit.” Sebastian wrenched his arrows out of the tree they were using as a target. “Try winning a fair fight for once in your life, precious.”

“You may be a better shot, but that changes nothing.” James was six years Sebastian’s senior, but both of his younger brothers towered over him, Abel more so than Sebastian. “I’m the heir, Abe’s the spare, and you’re an unfortunate mistake.”

“Come on, James. You’ve made your point.” Abel stepped between them. “Let’s just head in and forget about this.” 

“I’m not heading anywhere with that little cretin.” James stared Sebastian down, and Sebastian turned to walk away. If it involved James, it wasn’t a fight he could win. Even if he bested his brother, his parents berated him for it to the point that it wasn’t worth the fleeting satisfaction.

“We’d be better off if we didn’t have anything to forget about.” James called after him. Sebastian’s fingers twitched toward his bow, but he kept walking. 

“I’m talking to you!” James shouted. “You can ignore me all you want now, but one day I’ll rule Starkhaven, and the first thing I’ll do is chain you up in the damned dungeons.”

Sebastian stopped walking and turned to face them.

“I bet you’d like that, though," James continued. "Wouldn’t you, you little freak? Ah, but the ladies at the brothel have stories about you that would make mother cry.”

“James, stop. This isn’t funny anymore.” Abel objected as James started walking toward Sebastian.

Sebastian’s pulse sped up, and he clenched his hands into fists to hide their shaking.

“She should have smothered you when you were a baby and saved us all the embarrassment.” 

Sebastian’s cheeks flushed hot and tears stung his eyes. Faster than any of them could register, he fired and arrow that sent James reeling backwards. James lost his footing and fell, and before Abel could pull the arrow from his brother’s hand, Sebastian was on top of James, fists connecting with temple and jawbone until Abel hooked his arms behind his little brother’s.

“Sebastian, stop!” Abel struggled to lift Sebastian’s weight as Sebastian struggled to break his hold. 

“If you want me dead so badly, then do it!” Sebastian spat in James’ face. “Do everyone a favor if you’re so sure!” Sebastian’s right arm swung free, and he landed a punch that split his brother’s lip. He shook free of Abel and stood up on his own. 

“Nothing’s stopping you but your own cowardice.” James had brought his trembling hands up to shield his tear-streaked face as Sebastian stood over him. “I never asked to be here, but I’m not going out without a fight.” 

Abel knelt to take the arrow from James’ hand, and he wrapped the wound with a sash their mother would never forgive them for bloodying. It would be alright, though. She’d blame Sebastian, of course.

“You’re not man enough.” Sebastian picked up the arrow from where Abel had lain it on the ground. “But make no mistake about me. Next time, I aim for the throat, and we both know I don’t miss.”

Sebastian thought about trying to avoid the guards, but after a decade and a half of keeping out of sight, he’d run out of novel places to hide. Instead, he climbed up into his favorite tree and waited.

When they eventually found him that night, Sebastian's parents sent him to Kirkwall with nothing more than what he could carry with him, and they told him even that was less than he deserved. For coveting the throne and threatening the life of Starkhaven’s future Prince, his punishment would be a lifetime devoted to the Chantry. Devoid of worldly possessions and sworn to celibacy, Sebastian would have no opportunity to carry on bloodline of his own. There would be no threat from Sebastian, or from future generations that might raise an army to challenge his brother’s heirs. There would be no feud. There would be no coup, not from within their own house.

Sebastian looked back as he left, expecting only the castle’s cold silhouette to bid him farewell. His mother had stepped outside to watch him board his coach, though, and instead of the icy stoicism he was accustomed to seeing her wear, he could swear she looked afraid. 

She wrote to him once while he was still living in the Chantry. She told him she hoped he was well and that she was sad to see him go, but she stood by her choice. She wrote:

_My son, you will never understand how nearly you have brushed hands with Death and how narrowly you yet survive. Your father swore to me that if any harm befell James by your hand, he would see to it himself that you wouldn't live to reap the rewards of it. I may not have the tender affection for you that you always wished I did, but I have even less desire to bury my own children. Bearing in mind all the grief you have caused, a lesser mother might feel differently._

_However, I am a good and loving mother, though my many efforts on your behalf have surely made me seem a bitter and quarrelsome wife. Your father sleeps uneasy with the thought of your return, and he regrets his weakness in letting you go at all. Know that I alone bargained for your exile, and know that I alone have suffered dearly for it. You belong to the Maker now and to your earthly father no longer, but I have sacrificed too much for you to be a stranger to me. You may hate me as long as you live, but you will live. Twice now I have gifted you life, my son. Be grateful for this, and be wise with it, as I have no more left to give to you._

She had written all this, and yet his father had spared no expense to commission and deliver Sebastian's armor. No letter accompanied it, though, and Sebastian could never make sense of the intentions behind such a fine gift. He had no way of knowing now, and it hardly mattered anymore. Still, he wondered if his father hadn't sensed something amiss in the weeks leading up to his family's slaughter, or if perhaps not everything in his mother's letter was exactly as she said it was. He turned the possibilities over and around in his head each day as he cleaned and shined, buffed and cared for the only thing of value he had left to his name, his family's name. 

Now, as the doors of the castle hall swung open, Sebastian stepped inside and finally returned home. In spite of everything, he wished his family was there waiting for him.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Recommended Listening: Joni Mitchell - I Don't Know Where I Stand

_My dearest Westa,_

_Now that I’ve been restored to Starkhaven’s throne, my mind turns to the future. I deeply regret that our last meeting was less than pleasant. Please accept my invitation to Starkhaven and allow me to apologize face to face. The thought of the damage I have potentially caused weighs on my conscience, and I fear it will trouble me until I properly make amends._

_Despite the disagreements we’ve had in the past, you have been a loyal friend to me during a turbulent time in my life, and you have advised me selflessly when I have been at my most vulnerable. As such, I would like to extend an offer for you to consider. A position as Arcane Advisor to the Royal Court of Starkhaven would suit your abilities and expertise, both of which are in scarce supply and growing demand in these times._

_Additionally, and perhaps more importantly, such an arrangement would serve as a plausible pretense for you to remain in Starkhaven long-term. Having you by my side would allow me to provide shelter from any threats that might arise due to your connection to the growing mage rebellion. Please let me know when I should arrange for your arrival. I eagerly await your reply._

_Faithfully yours,  
Prince Sebastian Vael of Starkhaven_

 

The castle interior was magnificent even in disarray. Sebastian led Westa through the halls and pointed out details of historical significance, as well as some of his favorite boyhood hiding places. A few times, he faltered over a word or paused in the middle of a story. Westa couldn’t tell which was more difficult for him, confronting his old memories or accepting that the people in them weren’t coming back. Sebastian pressed forward though, and he played the part of the optimistic host as best he could.

“Would you like to see the garden?” he asked. “It’s no more than heather and ivy now, but it’s still quite charming.”

“I thought you invited me here to apologize.” Westa said, tired of the thinly masked tension and extended avoidance that had been brewing since she arrived. 

“Aye, that I did.” He relaxed his formal posture and laughed softly, relieved she’d cut the tour short. “You always keep me on task, don’t you, Westa?” He headed for the garden anyway, knowing she wouldn’t go any place she didn’t want to go and would have voiced any protests she had.

“Yes, that’s mostly my intent.” Her smile was reserved, but Sebastian had learned that the absence of a scowl was proof enough that she was happy.

“I’m sorry,” he told her, “for the way I acted and the things I said. I hope you can forgive me.” Westa said nothing, and her silence prompted him to continue.

“The news came as a shock to me, but I suppose it shouldn’t have. Regardless of her reasoning, Aveline is right. My place is in Starkhaven, not Kirkwall.” 

Westa nodded as she took in the dark green ivy climbing the walls and the pink, purple, and white flowers spilling out from every available patch of soil in the garden.

“I had grown attached to Kirkwall, though, in the time I’d spent there,” he admitted. She shot him an incredulous glance and wondered if he remembered the city differently than she did. Her expression caught him off guard, and his laughter danced on the breeze.

“Perhaps more so, I’ve grown attached to the people there.” He looked at her intently.

“Anyone in particular?” The corners of her lips lifted up into a brighter smile. 

Sebastian smirked and shifted his gaze from her. “Perhaps.” 

He motioned to a low garden wall, and they sat down together. 

“You’re right,” she told him. “It is charming.” Westa felt her stomach flutter, but she resolved not to give in so quickly. She breathed in the cool air of twilight and closed her eyes against the last orange rays of the sun. 

“You’re not finished with this, are you?” He asked softly as he waited for her to gather her thoughts and speak.

“I’m not,” she admitted, eyes still closed. She took another slow, deep breath. When she opened her eyes, she looked ahead at the horizon. “We can’t keep doing this.”

“I know.” It was Sebastian’s turn to look away now. He reached out to take her hand in his. “I know I need to do better, I just can’t seem to figure out what that means. I feel like I’m just… floundering. I don’t know who to trust or what to believe.”

“I know.” She tucked her hair behind her ears, still avoiding eye contact but keenly aware of Sebastian studying her body language. “I know. I’ve always tried to have your best interests at heart, or defend your reputation when people said unfair things about you.”

“Thank you for that, by the way.” Sebastian interjected.

“Of course,” she continued. “But I’m--” She bit her lip and deliberated on whether to say more. She sighed. “I’m tired of going around in circles with you like this.”

“You’re right.” Sebastian nodded. “It’s not fair to you that in all these years I haven’t learned to be a better man. But I am trying. As long as you’ve known me, I have been trying.”

They sat in silence, and Westa remembered the fiery young man who loosed an arrow across the Chantry courtyard all those years ago. 

“You shot that letter straight into the Chanter’s board, and I knew you’d be able to hold your own in a fight.” She looked over at him as she reminisced. “I was delighted when you offered to travel with me. I wanted to see what you were capable of.” 

“Aye, I bet you did!” Sebastian’s nose crinkled when he laughed, and Westa playfully bumped her shoulder against his.

“I still do, for the record,” she confessed. 

“I know,” he replied. He brought their hands to his lips and kissed the back of Westa’s knuckles. Her heart leapt, and she slipped her hand from his as she stood up. 

“I accept your apology, Sebastian.” She folded her arms and fixed her eyes on the horizon again. 

“Thank you for being patient with me.” He watched her as the sun sank further below the distant hills and the warm orange sky faded to violet. 

“I’m trying,” she replied after some time. Sebastian rose and stood beside her.

“We can discuss more in the morning,” he said. “I’m sure you’d like to rest after your travels.”

“I would,” she admitted. “The journey here seems longer each time.”

“Fortunate, then, that you won’t have to make it again any time soon.” Sebastian sounded hopeful but less than certain as he offered her his arm and they started back toward the castle.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Recommended listening: I Don’t Feel It Anymore (Song of the Sparrow) - William Fitzsimmons

_Prince Vael,_

_We are honored by your inquiry regarding our daughter Malin. She is yet unmarried, though she quickly approaches an age which would make her a less desirable choice to most. However, an alliance between our family and yours would elevate House Brandt, as well as strengthen Starkhaven’s influence across the Free Marches. Malin has always been a quick study, and I’m confident she would be an asset to any household, even one so noble as your own._

_She holds rather progressive politics, and I will admit that this has made it difficult to find an arrangement that suits her high standards. Still, she is as devoted to the Maker as she is to her own family. From what I understand, you are a forward-thinking, modern man yourself. I see no reason why the two of you wouldn’t get along satisfactorily._

_I humbly beg your pardon if it seems I am getting ahead of myself. It would be imprudent to assume too much so early on, but suffice it to say that your interest is reciprocated by my daughter as well as myself. If it pleases you, we can arrange a visit for the two of you to become better acquainted._

_Lord Irvin Brandt_

 

Westa’s eyes scanned the page over and over, looking for some indication that she’d made a mistake. Maybe she'd read it too fast, missed some nuance that would change things, that would make it mean something else. She wasn’t purposely snooping; she was looking for an old book, something on herbalism traditions and local flora.

It didn’t matter anymore. The letter was sitting open on Sebastian’s desk, and she'd picked it up and read it, and she couldn't put it down. The longer she looked at the swirling script, the less likely it seemed that she would find any explanation other than the one that confirmed her worst suspicions.

In all of this, she was most surprised by her lack of surprise. It felt inevitable. Whether he stayed in Kirkwall and wanted a chaste marriage or returned to Starkhaven and needed a political one, Westa wasn't fit for either, and Sebastian would choose duty over desire every time. He thought it made him a better person. Maybe it did.

She startled when Sebastian entered the room. He looked from her face to the letter in her hands, and his expression hardened when he recognized it.

“I didn’t-- I was just…” Westa’s mind was still reeling and her words couldn’t catch up.

Sebastian moved to take the letter from her, but she stepped back.

“Westa, please.” He held his hand out. “It’s nothing. It’s not anything you need to worry about.”

“What are you talking about?” She shook her head and stared back at him. “I thought--” Her mouth went dry. “Sebastian, you know that I--”

She took a breath to compose a single coherent thought.

“When were you going to tell me?” her voice cracked into a whisper.

“I don’t know.” He reached for the letter again and she handed it over this time. “I don’t know,” he repeated and ran his free hand through his hair as he re-read the incriminating correspondence. “I didn’t think I needed to. I never intended for anything to come of it.”

Westa felt her shock and embarrassment twisting into contempt as she tried to suppress the rising tide of her tears. “I spent years believing your sanctimonious bullshit--”

“It’s not bullshit--” Sebastian interrupted, thrown by Westa’s sudden change in tone.

“--about redemption and trying to be a better man,” she continued. 

“I meant all of it. I still mean all of it--” he argued. 

“As it turns out, you’ll happily marry, just not someone like me!” She turned her back as hot tears rolled down her face. 

“What?” Sebastian paused and looked at her, shocked for a second time by the shifts and turns of Westa’s emotions. 

“How was it you described me again? An arrogant--” 

“Westa--” 

“--apostate--” 

“I already--” 

“--thug?” 

“I already apologized for that!” Sebastian slammed the letter down on the desk. “I know I was wrong, and you said you forgave me.” 

“It’s not wrong if it’s how you feel, Sebastian.” Westa shrugged. 

Sebastian took a deep breath and tried to speak calmly. “It’s not. You know that.” 

Westa shook her head. “If you’re looking at marriage as a means for political advancement that’s how I add up.” 

“That’s not what I was doing.” Sebastian protested softly. 

“Don’t lie.” Westa clenched her eyes shut. “Please don’t try to lie to me right now.” 

“I’m not lying!” he shouted. “I asked you once already, and you refused me.” 

“Because you wanted me to pledge my life to the Chantry, and I don’t make insincere promises.” Hawke busied herself trying to light the fireplace. 

“My vows were not insincere. You are the one who encouraged me to renounce them and pursue the throne.” Sebastian sat behind his desk. 

“I’m not talking about your Chantry vows.” Hawke abandoned her efforts at the fireplace and turned to look at Sebastian. “You promised me--” 

“I know what I said,” he cut her off. “You couldn’t still expect me to come back for you when you banned me from Kirkwall.” 

“I did nothing,” she said. “Even if I’d wanted to, I don’t have the authority. Aveline--” 

“We both know she would never have sent that letter if you hadn’t instigated it, or at least approved it,” he said. 

“I did not instigate anything,” she told him. 

“So you approved it,” he stated. 

“It shouldn’t matter.” She shook her head. “You said--” 

“I said if I couldn’t come back for you, I would send for you, and I have done that,” he told her. 

“This is not what you meant, and you know it,” Westa objected. 

“Perhaps you misunderstood me.” 

Sebastian’s stoic dismissal left Westa disoriented. She had no real way to argue against it, but she knew she hadn’t mistaken him. Convincing her she had was Sebastian’s last attempt to deny culpability, and Westa knew that, too, on the surface. Still, every time he rebuffed her, part of her felt foolish for interpreting significance where there was none, and another part felt selfish for expecting more than she was offered. 

“Then why did you call me here?” she asked, part challenge and part plea. 

“Westa, please don’t cry.” Sebastian rose from the desk and walked toward her. 

“Answer me,” she demanded. “Would you dare pretend you had earnestly offered me employment and nothing more?” She accused him, but her own shame rose up from inside her and spilled out in a wash of tears. 

Sebastian turned away from her and paced the room as he spoke. 

“I thought you would be safer here with me, but I knew we hadn’t solved things well enough that you would accept any terms that weren’t grounded in practical matters.” He paused as he deliberated on whether to say more. “I didn’t know how you would react. I sent out the other letter as a sort of contingency.” 

“No doubt at the exact same time you wrote me,” Westa predicted. Sebastian said nothing, but his face turned red. “How many more are there?” 

“None. Just the one,” Sebastian answered. 

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?” she asked. 

“I don’t suppose it would.” Sebastian ran a hand through his hair. 

“I don’t have a backup plan,” Westa told him. “I never have. I have always only ever wanted you.” Her voice rose with each word. “So here I am,” she wailed, “and for what? To languish here while I wait on you like I have waited on you for years?” 

“I hadn’t thought it through!” he defended. 

“Clearly!” She stepped directly in front of him to interrupt his pacing and force him to look at her. “You’re so high above the rest of us that you don’t have to! You can do whatever you want in the name of Starkhaven and the Maker!” 

“I’m only trying to keep you safe!” he shouted. 

Sebastian took a deep breath and a step back. He looked up at the ceiling, and he could feel Westa watching him the way she watched strangers moving through crowded places in Kirkwall, like she was sizing them up and waiting for a misstep. 

“Please don’t look at me like that,” he said. 

“Like what?” Her gaze didn’t waver. 

“I don’t know,” he shook his head and kept that particular string of thoughts to himself. “I think I like it better when you’re shouting. At least I know what you’re thinking.” 

“It worries me that the only time you believe I’m being honest with you is when I’m at my wit’s end,” she said. 

When Sebastian looked back at Westa, he saw her studying him with what looked to him now like concern. He couldn’t tell whether he’d misread her earlier expression or whether it had changed. He moved closer to her and laid his hands on either side of her face. He brushed his thumb over her cheek, then started to push her hair back from her temple. 

“Don’t touch me!” Westa jerked away from him. “You have no right to touch me.” 

“I’m sorry,” he took a step toward her, then stopped short. “Westa, I’m sorry.” 

“There’s no need to be.” She folded her arms across her chest. “It’s not like you hurt me.” 

Sebastian sat down behind his desk. “I undoubtedly have.” During the tense silence that followed, Westa walked toward the window and looked out at the faded yellow and brown of the early spring grass. 

After he regained his composure, Sebastian spoke again. “I can explain everything if you would just listen to me,” he said. 

“I’m still here, am I not?” Westa didn’t turn from the window. 

“I never lied to you,” he began. “I sent my original letter out, but I haven’t replied at all to this one. Nothing is set in stone. Hardly anything is even in motion.” 

“That’s not good enough at this point, Sebastian,” she told him. “You know how I feel. You have always known exactly how I feel.” She turned to face him. “The only reason I’m still holding on like this is because you keep telling me some part of you feels the same way. If that’s not true--” 

“It’s not that simple.” He rested his head in his hands. 

“It should be,” she stated. “If it isn’t, why did you ask me to come here?” she asked again. 

“I wanted to keep you safe. I meant that,” he answered gently. “I thought we could figure the rest out as we go.” He looked over the letter again. 

“We can’t.” Westa shook her head. “Not like this.” She realized Sebastian was no less conflicted now than he had been the entire time she’d known him. Now, as ever, Westa committed to a course of action and pushed ahead, and she accepted whatever consequences may come. Sebastian trailed behind her, willing but wary, and he left options open both ahead of him and behind him. Westa mentally tallied all the burnt bridges in her wake and thought perhaps they were the reason she was a fugitive and he a Prince. 

“We used to, though,” Sebastian looked up at her. “We used to fly through Kirkwall without a plan for anything, and it seemed like we almost always ended up doing the right thing. He looked down at the pile of papers on his desk. “It feels like I never do anymore.” 

Westa recognized how vastly different Sebastian’s perspective was from her own. She was haunted by her mistakes, all the choices that slipped through her fingers, all the missed opportunities where things could have ended differently. No matter how much she thought things through, she never seemed to get it right enough. The further back she thought, the truer that proved. 

“I’m glad you remember that time fondly,” she said. 

Sebastian was taken aback by her comment, but he saw no hint of malice in her expression, and he heard no sarcastic bite in her voice. “I suppose I can understand why you don't,” he said and looked back down at his desk. “Still, I hope my presence in your life brought you more happiness than heartache.” 

“It did,” Westa nodded. 

“I take it you won’t be staying,” Sebastian stated without looking up. 

“To find out whether or not I’m carrying a torch for someone else’s husband?” she asked. “I’m sorry, Sebastian. I can’t.”

Westa left the study and walked back to her quarters, which had proven far more temporary than even she had anticipated. She packed up what little she’d brought out during her short stay, then she sat down cross-legged on the floor. She let herself cry in the way she only could now that she was alone, and she tried to let go of the thought that she had finally found a safe place to land.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Recommended Listening: Angus & Julia Stone - Youngblood

Sebastian rapped his knuckles gently against the door.

“Can I come in?” he asked. 

“You can go wherever you please; you own the place,” Westa answered from the other side. 

“I’m asking you,” he said. 

“Fine.” She opened the door. “How long have you been out there?" 

“A while,” he answered. 

“Well what do you want?” She stood in the doorway. She could feel her swollen eyes and her raw nose, and she knew how red her face would be after a long crying spell. Still, she couldn’t bring herself to feel much more embarrassed now than she had before. 

He hesitated. “Are you okay?” he asked. 

“You’ve been out there ‘a while.’ What do you think?” she asked. 

For as long as they’d known each other, Westa did her best to hide her distress from Sebastian for fear of how her emotionality might sway him. Now, she wondered if her reticence had obscured too much. 

“I know I hurt you, but I still care about you,” he told her. He he looked from her cloak to her boots, then he noticed that her things were packed up and strapped to her back. “Wes, please don’t leave,” he said. “Not like this.” 

“I’m going to.” She didn’t look him in the eye. “You can stand there all you like. You can’t change my mind, and you’re not going to stop me.” 

“I can’t-- What if something happens to you?” Sebastian lingered in the doorway. 

“It will,” she said. “Misfortune is tied to me like an anchor. You don’t want to be dragged down with me, and I don’t blame you.” 

“That’s not true--” he started. 

“Isn’t it?” she challenged him. “I can’t stop being what I am.” She turned her face away from him. ”Wherever you go, whatever you do, I don’t belong in the life you’re building.” 

“That’s not--” 

“Sebastian, stop,” she cut him off. “This may not be what either of us wanted, but it’s what’s happening.” 

“It doesn’t have to be,” he said. “Would you just give me a chance--” 

Westa shook her head. “I am a woman who is constantly fighting, but one look from you disarms me.” Her voice softened, but it Sebastian could hear the unrest under the surface. “You know this,” she said. “It used to be harmless, but I find myself compromising more and more as time wears on.” 

“I’m so sorry I’ve done this to you.” He reached forward to lay his hand on her cheek. 

The first time he’d touched her with any affection that couldn’t be misconstrued as mere formality, it was breathtakingly intimate and equally frightening. These small gestures were instinct now, though, and the feeling of her skin under his fingertips was a familiar comfort. 

“Don’t.” She stopped him short with a word, and he retreated as quickly as he’d reached out to her. “I may not have found the will to refuse you entirely, but I am not the same girl you left behind in Kirkwall.” 

“Regardless of whether you are still the same person or you have become someone else entirely, I want you to stay.” Sebastian’s shoulders slumped forward, and he ran his hand over his face. “Westa, you are all I have left.” 

“That may have been true at one point,” she said, “but it isn’t anymore.” 

“Yes it is,” he said. “If you leave now, you won’t come back, and I don’t know if I can get through the rest of my life without you.” 

“You’ll manage somehow,” she told him, “but I can’t be here for you to cling to until you find who you’re looking for. I can’t do it.” She swallowed and tried to dismiss the crack in her voice. The time for displays of weakness had passed, and she was determined not to change course. 

“That's not what you are to me.” He waited for her to look up at him before he continued. “Please try to understand. I knew you wouldn’t come without purpose.” 

“I would have.” Her decisive statement caught him off guard. “You didn’t have to hide behind a sideways job offer,” she said. “All you had to do was ask, and it would have been enough for me. You have never believed it, but you have always been enough for me on your own merit.” 

“Then I was wrong,” he said, “But is that so unforgivable that it undoes every good and worthwhile thing we've done together?” 

“For me to withhold forgiveness from you would require a wound far worse than you’re capable of causing,” Westa told him. 

“Then why can’t you see past this?” he asked. “Why do you feel like the only way forward is for you to walk away?” 

“I have never been certain whether my attachment to you was reciprocated,” she said. “That alone was difficult enough, but I was wholly unprepared for the reality that you were courting someone else. All I can do now is try to preserve what little is left of my dignity.” 

“Saying I courted her is a stretch,” Sebastian looked away from her and folded his arms across his chest. “I asked if she was already spoken for. That's all I did,” he explained. “I was afraid to hang all my hopes on you only to have you turn me down again.” 

Sebastian’s first proposal was met with incredulity, with _Do I look like a priestess to you?_ The memory still made his cheeks flush. He’d been naive, perhaps even oblivious to the conflicts Westa had with the Chantry and its teachings. It should have been obvious to him even then, but he was of a more innocent mind. He’d believed that Chantry leadership was misguided at times, but ultimately just. Westa had elaborated on all the reasons she disagreed, but she didn’t spare his pride in the process. Although she took more care with Sebastian’s feelings than anyone else’s, she remained a Hawke. 

“I have been hanging all my hopes on you from the moment you showed any interest at all,” Westa’s voice jolted him from his recollections. “And not once have I used your indecision as an excuse to look elsewhere. Not once have I led you to believe my intentions were anything other than what they were,” she continued, “and certainly not so I could shape your decisions for the sake of what I wanted.” 

“You make it sound calculated, and I promise you none of it was.” Sebastian shook his head. 

“You have promised me many things, Sebastian,” she said. “I’m starting to wonder if they weren’t all spun-sugar lies.” 

“I don’t think that’s fair,” he mumbled. “I never meant for it to happen like this; it all just sort of happened.” 

“An entire letter does not just happen,” she corrected him. “It does not think itself into existence. It does not write itself, seal itself, send itself off,” she said. 

“I’m sorry. I panicked. It was impulsive, and I shouldn’t have done it.” He ran a hand through his hair and sighed. Westa ignored the shine of Sebastian’s eyes and the strained tone of his voice. “I should have thought things through more carefully, but it’s been hard to think clearly at all without you here,” he confessed. “I've been worried sick about you for months, and I've missed you terribly.” 

“Did you miss me, Sebastian, or were you just lonely?” she asked. 

Her question stunned him into silence, and he stood wide-eyed as he struggled to find words to deliver him from the endless moment he felt trapped within. 

“If you’re still confused about your feelings for me, there’s nothing more I can do to help you.” Westa adjusted her pack on her shoulders and brushed past him. 

“I’m not confused,” he told her. “I love you.” 

She stopped short and looked up at him, and for once her anger burned through the tightness she felt in her chest whenever her eyes met his. For as angry as she was with Sebastian, though, she was angrier still with her own predictability. Without ever realizing it, she had fallen one step behind, reactionary and deferent to no one else but him. 

“For years, I wished you did,” she began. “For years after that, I believed you did. It's far too late for all that now.” 

She took off down the hallway, and as she rounded the corner, she heard Sebastian call her name. She ignored it twice, until she heard his footsteps echoing behind her. 

“Are you going to follow me all the way back to Kirkwall, then?” She stopped and turned to face him. 

“Aye, if I have to. I’m more stubborn than you give me credit for.” His voice had a sharp edge to it now, and he caught up to her in a few long strides. 

“Say whatever it is you have to say,” she told him. “I don’t want Aveline starting a war.” 

“Aveline won’t do a blessed thing without your permission, and you know it,” he said. “She hasn’t defied you in any matter of any consequence since your mother passed.” 

“Did you really chase me down to remind me of that?” Westa raised her eyebrows, and Sebastian’s last shred of patience vanished. 

“I meant what I said, and I’ll say it again if it makes any difference.” His voice grew louder. “I love you. Tell me what you want me to say, and I’ll say it. Tell me what you want me to do,” 

“There’s nothing you can do to make this go away.” Westa shook her head. “l can’t be satisfied knowing that anyone could take my place and it wouldn’t matter to you who it was.” She started walking again. “Now go,” she said. “Write your lords and ladies. See what futures they have for sale.” 

“What if you’re the only future I want?” Sebastian insisted as he outpaced her and stood in front of her. In the wide halls of the palace, she could have easily maneuvered around him, but she stopped once more and stared back at him. 

“I don’t put much value in words, Sebastian, but I do recall you once telling me you couldn’t imagine your life without me in it,” she said. Sebastian nodded, and Westa saw his hands drift toward hers before he caught himself. He crossed his arms and looked away from her. Westa drew closer to him, and she took his face in both her hands, coaxing him to look at her again. He held his hands over hers, and she regretted offering any contact at all when she saw how her touch flooded him with relief. She used her thumbs to brush away the tears under his eyes, then she stepped back, not wishing to cruelly linger where she didn’t intend to stay. 

“Not only did you imagine such a life, you wanted some part of it badly enough that you took a bold step toward securing it,” she said. Sebastian shut his eyes and shook his head, unable to argue with her reasoning but unwilling to accept it. “I’m not going to get in your way,” Westa said. “If you have even a scrap of pity in your heart to spare for me, you’ll get out of mine.” 

Sebastian didn’t step aside, but he didn’t stop her either as she moved past him. Westa resisted the urge to look back at him, and she kept a steady pace until she stepped through the colossal doors of the Great Hall. When she was certain she was out of his sight, she broke into a run and didn’t slow until she made it outside the castle grounds.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Recommended Listening: Kina Grannis - When the Party's Over

_Prince Vael,_

__

_I’ve received your inquiries into Hawke’s whereabouts. She spared me the details, but I gather your last meeting did not go well. She’s not in the city at present, but she’ll see to your letters when she returns, if she chooses to reply at all. In the meantime, don’t hold your breath, and stop asking around._

__

_Guard-Captain Hendyr_

____

“I hear you’ve been rather surly lately, love.” Isabela broached the subject when they met at The Hanged Man at Aveline’s request, much to all of their surprise. “I mean, you’re normally surly, but more than usual lately,” she joked.

____

Westa tried to give her a faint smile, but judging by Isabela’s expression, she hadn’t actually succeeded. Isabela handed her a mug of something warm and spicy smelling. Westa never asked what was inside; their game was that she drink first and ask questions later. Whether whiskey-spiked lemonade in the blistering summer sun or hot mulled wine after a brutal winter outing, every drink Isabela ordered for her was exactly what Westa needed exactly when she needed it. 

____

“It’s nothing, really. It’s my own fault.” Westa opened up grudgingly. 

____

“I doubt it.” Isabela scoffed. “I’ve heard the two of you talk.” 

____

Westa raised her eyebrows.

____

“Shit,” Isabela cursed. “Aveline updated me when we made plans,” she admitted. “She probably couldn’t get me to show up otherwise. I’m pretty good at dodging her dinner parties.”

____

Westa took a long drink, willing the heat of the mug in her hands to radiate through the rest of her. “I feel so stupid, Bela.” She stared down into her cup. “I read too much into things, and I should have known better.” 

____

“Nonsense.” Isabela signaled the bartender to bring them another round. “I would have thought the same thing in your situation.” She took a drink. 

____

“That's funny; I never said anything about that ‘situation’ to Aveline.” Westa cracked half a smile, and this time it did register in Isabela’s now more relaxed eyes. “The only person I told was Varric.” 

____

“Damn it.” Isabela laughed. “So we may have exchanged some information ahead of time. How else am I supposed to make sure you're okay when you don't tell me anything?” Isabela tried to keep her tone light, but she chafed at being left out of the loop. Even when she'd been staying in Kirkwall, it hadn't been any better. Leandra had been dead a week before anyone told Isabela, and even then it had been Aveline, not Westa.

____

“It’s good to know my friends gossip about me behind my back,” Westa teased her.

____

“What kind of friends would we be if we didn’t?” Varric approached the bar and nodded to the bartender. 

____

“Not very good ones.” Aveline answered him, arriving alongside him in civilian clothes instead of her guardsman armor. “I’ll just have a hot tea,” she told the bartender, who squinted at the four of them and peered into the hood of Westa’s cloak.

____

“Well, there’s no sense lingering up front.” Varric ushered them away from the main area and back toward his suite, then he turned back and shook the bartender’s hand.  
The Champion of Kirkwall wasn’t difficult to identify, whether by her luminous hair or her clear, cold eyes. Fortunately, gold seemed to have an amnesiac effect on the people of Kirkwall, and Varric made sure anyone who might have recognized her would conveniently forget. 

____

Varric dealt them all in for a game of Wicked Grace, then he broke the silence. 

____

“So, anyone else getting letters from the new Prince of Starkhaven?”

____

“Oh, Maker!” Aveline exclaimed. “Once a week, like clockwork. I told him to piss off.” 

____

Isabela nearly choked on her ale. “You did not!”

____

“I did.” Aveline hid her smug grin behind sips of tea.

____

“I have to pick them up from Varric when I’m in town, so I haven’t even read mine lately.” Isabela shrugged as she regained her composure.

____

“Now that you mention it…” Varric disappeared around a corner, and after some rustling, he reemerged with a stack of letters in each hand.

____

“Isabela,” he slapped one stack in front of her, “and Hawke.” He laid down the other. “My pile is the size of both yours combined. Most are from the Merchants Guild, but more than a few are from our dear, sweet Sebastian.” He smiled. “Choir Boy must have plenty of time on his hands. I heard from Daisy that he’s a great pen pal, so he’s writing her, too.”

____

“What does he want?” Westa spoke up. 

____

“Who knows?” Varric chuckled. “I'm so far backed up I haven't had time to read them. I just add them to the pile.”

____

“Mostly to know if you’re back in Kirkwall, which I would never admit even if I didn’t think he was a prick.” Aveline filled them in. 

____

“Aveline, please," Westa interjected. Aveline rolled her eyes and continued.

____

“Occasionally he’s written to ask how you are, and once or twice to humbly beg your forgiveness.” She smiled at Westa over the rim of her cup.

____

“Oh, poor thing.” Isabela's sympathy sounded genuine. “Someone ought to tell him that desperation is not a flattering look, no matter how pretty one is.” 

____

“That advice sounds better suited to me, I think,” Westa mumbled.

____

“Sorry, kitten.” Isabela wrinkled her nose and tried to subtly eye the other players’ cards. 

____

“No cheating, Isabela.” Aveline called her out. 

____

“No fun, you mean?” Isabela sulked. 

____

“Listen, if there’s one thing I know, it’s that sometimes… shit just sucks.” Varric attempted to comfort Westa but fell flat. 

____

“I don’t know why you’re all making such a fuss,” Westa protested dully. “This is certainly not the first time we’ve disagreed.” She didn’t blame them for talking to one another about her given how seldom she talked about herself. She didn’t like to publicize her feelings or her failures. As a result, she didn’t talk about Sebastian much at all. 

____

“Fighting with a friend is never easy.” Varric stated.

____

“But like I said,” Isabela took another drink. “I’ve heard the two of you talk.” She locked eyes with Westa across the table.

____

“Although, interestingly, Choir Boy never seems to say much of anything,” Varric observed as he swirled his glass of dark red wine. 

____

“Perish the thought!” Aveline looked at Varric sideways. “If he did, he might have to keep his word.”

____

“Enough,” Westa interrupted them. “Yes, I was fooled by pretty words and empty gestures,” she admitted. “Let’s not dwell upon it.”

____

The room had shifted into unpleasant silence, as it often did when Westa spoke. Her mother used to tell her that she chased people off even as a baby, all glaring eyes and wild white hair. That temperament served her just fine-- favorably even-- when she needed to surmount an obstacle or subdue a foe. The challenge she faced was holding onto any kind of friendship.

____

“All we’re saying is we’ve got your back,” Varric reminded her.

____

“Absolutely,” Aveline agreed.

____

“Now let’s lighten up.” Isabela knocked back the rest of her drink. “This is supposed to be a fun girls’ night.”

____

“Well, plus Varric,” Aveline noted.

____

“Shit, if anyone needs a girl’s night, it’s me.” Varric laughed.

____

“Ooh, shall we have a pillow fight and braid Varric’s chest hair?” Isabela quipped as she collected her winnings. 

____

Westa laughed for all their sakes. “I’d rather not.”

____


	7. Chapter 7 (SFW)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm posting a non-explicit version of this chapter for those of you who want to enjoy the romance or keep up with the plot details but could do without the... extra bits. Let me know if this is helpful!
> 
> Recommended Listening: Joni Mitchell - Tin Angel

_Westa,_

_I hope this reaches you, wherever you are. Something strange is going on with the Wardens. Stay safe, and I’ll try to do the same._

_Carver_

Westa thought about Carver’s letter as she shook the rain off her gear. She’d tried to look after him, but the Blight had outmatched her. Now his life was forfeit to the Grey Wardens, and even that she owed to someone else. She leaned down to take off her swamp-soaked boots, and a ring fell forward, dangling from the chain around her neck. 

“Warden’s Promise,” Stroud remarked. “You still have it.” 

“It is enchanted, is it not?” she asked dryly and removed her gloves. 

“The enchantment only works if you wear it." Stroud took off the heaviest parts of his armor. “Around your neck like that, It’s no more than a trinket.” He found a place to sit and clean his blade from the day’s battle. “But you know that.”

Westa looked over and saw him smiling to himself. 

“It may come as a shock you, but yes, I do know the single most basic principle of enchanted items.” She evaded his comments as she twirled the ring between her fingers. “But thank you for your concern.” 

Westa sighed quietly and shook her head. That wouldn’t do. Stroud hadn’t really earned her ire, at least not yet, and neither of them knew how much longer they’d need to maintain working and traveling together. 

“It reminds me of Carver,” she admitted. 

“Ah,” Stroud uttered softly, and after a moment, “Here I’d hoped it held a different sort of sentimental value.” 

“Why would it?” Hawke deflected his nonthreatening yet forward overture. 

“There’s no reason it would.” He paused, and the silence between them hung heavy in the warm air. “In Kirkwall, during the Qunari attack,” Stroud focused on his work as he spoke. “We’d only met twice, but I’d heard of you from your brother, from rumors in the Order. I knew I couldn’t stay, but I wanted to protect you somehow.” 

“I defended an entire city, and I did it more than once. I can protect myself,” she told him. 

“I know. It was... impulsive.” He looked at her. 

Stroud's eyes reminded Westa of a man she’d known in Lothering, though to call him a man at that age would have been generous. The lanky middle son of a struggling farmer, he had admired her strength and difference more than he feared it. When the darkspawn descended upon the village, she saw them pin him down and claw his face away as she and her family ran. 

Her thoughts raced to Sebastian. On days they traveled the coast together, or when he thought she was absorbed in reading, she would catch him watching her with the same fascination. She’d once hoped that meant she was more to him than an outlet for his idle flirtations and ideological battles. 

Westa became suddenly and achingly aware of the parts of herself her desire had eclipsed for so long. For all the accusations she hurled at Sebastian, it was her own insatiable loneliness that caged her. Her heart was a howling, wounded creature, and his scraps of affection kept it alive, but it remained always on the sharp edge of starvation. 

Now she stood before a man who had no wealth or station, no future except Blight and ruin, but who was earnest in his interest and clear in his intent. Whether his involvement would leave her better, worse, or simply different she didn’t know. 

“Warden Stroud,” she addressed him. 

“Jean-Marc,” he offered. 

“Jean-Marc,” she repeated, scarcely above a whisper. Her Fereldan accent felt clumsy and abrasive in her mouth. He watched her lips move through his name, then his eyes met hers again. 

“Westa,” she supplied. “My first name is Westa.” 

“Westa,” he said. “Please forgive me.” He sheathed his sword and set it aside. “You have enough to worry about. You needn't be burdened by an old man's foolish fantasies.” 

“You're not that old,” she told him. 

“I feel like I am.” Stroud ran a hand through his hair. “Regardless,” he began again, “I apologize if I've made you uncomfortable.” 

“You haven't,” Westa answered. “Not at all.” She walked over to him. “In truth, I've come to feel quite the opposite.” 

“You’re as gracious as you are beautiful,” he said. 

“Thank you,” she murmured as Stroud continued. 

“But you're too kind.” His weary tone suggested he meant this more as advisement than flattery. 

“I'm not being kind,” she said. “I’m being honest.” He looked up at her, and she elaborated. “It's a comfort to be wanted, and to be certain of it,” she said. “Thank you for your clarity, Jean Marc. Please don't mistake my lack of charm for a lack of interest.” 

She walked away and began to undress, peeling layers of frigid fabric from her body as much for safety as for any attempt at allure. She didn't flinch, though, when she looked back and saw Stroud watching her out of more than the corner of his eye. 

“All talk then, Warden?” she said over her shoulder. 

“Just appreciating the sight of you now that I know I'm allowed to,” he said. “It would be a shame to rush such a rare opportunity.” 

“That may be true,” Westa turned to face him, “but it hardly seems fair.” She waited for him to come to her before she started working at the clasps and buckles on what was left of his armor. 

He leaned toward her and brushed his thumb over her lips. He hesitated then, and his gaze lingered on her mouth. 

“May I?” 

She nodded and drew him into a kiss, and he took off the rest of his clothes as she ran her hands through his rain-wet, black hair and over the rough stubble on his jawline. In the midst of war and chaos, they reached for something to still the churning thoughts that threatened to pull them both under, and they found it in each other. Outside, rain continued to pour down from the crackling, Fade-torn sky.

Stroud swept her hair back from her face and tucked it behind her ear. He pressed a kiss to her temple and cupped her face in his hand.

“Is everything okay?”

She avoided his eyes, unsure of the answer to his question.

“You look troubled. I hope--”

She laid her hand on his cheek and kissed him gently, then took his hand in hers and led him to her bedroll. She wasn’t one to offer platitudes, and her misgivings had little to do with him. She would reassure him the same way she contemplated her own situation; silently.

She sat between his legs and focused on the rise and fall of his steady breathing while he massaged the tense muscles in her back.

“That’s kind of you,” she commented.

“It's the least I can do,” he replied and pressed a kiss to the back of her neck. "A woman of your station deserves better than to sleep on the ground."

"I'm no stranger to nights at camp," she said. "Despite what my current station may suggest, I didn't always have my own estate. Hell, half the time, I didn't have my own bed." Westa paused at the memory of Bethany's tiny, hot feet sticking to the back of her legs on the worst humid summer nights in Lothering, or maybe the town before. She shook her head. "Suffice it to say I've suffered worse accommodations, though I do admire your chivalry," she laughed.

“I was trained as a chevalier for a short time,” he smiled. "It was another life, but I suppose some attitudes stay with you, though I'm glad not many of them."

Westa closed her eyes as he worked on a particularly stubborn knot in her shoulder. "So they really are as terrible as people say?" she asked. "I mean, you don't have to tell me if you don't want to." 

"They're worse," he answered. "Now isn't the time, but one of these days I'll tell you what they're really like."

"I've heard stories," she said.

"They're probably true, and probably not the worst of it," he told her as he used his thumbs on the delicate muscles in her neck.

Westa nodded slightly, enough that he'd feel it under his hands but not so much that it would disrupt him. "I can believe that," she said, "unfortunate as it may be."

That sat in silence until Westa realized that Stroud had stopped rubbing her back and started braiding her damp hair in what felt like a plaited crown.

“I’m surprised you know how to do that,” Westa murmured as she drifted closer and closer toward sleep. “Something else they taught you in your chevalier training?” she joked.

“No,” he answered solemnly, “I used to have a little sister.”

“Me too,” was her quiet reply.


	8. Chapter 7 (Explicit)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: It's about to get a lil steamy
> 
> Recommended Listening: Joni Mitchell - Tin Angel

_Westa,_

_I hope this reaches you, wherever you are. Something strange is going on with the Wardens. Stay safe, and I’ll try to do the same._

_Carver_

Westa thought about Carver’s letter as she shook the rain off her gear. She’d tried to look after him, but the Blight had outmatched her. Now his life was forfeit to the Grey Wardens, and even that she owed to someone else. She leaned down to take off her swamp-soaked boots, and a ring fell forward, dangling from the chain around her neck. 

“Warden’s Promise,” Stroud remarked. “You still have it.” 

“It is enchanted, is it not?” she asked dryly and removed her gloves. 

“The enchantment only works if you wear it." Stroud took off the heaviest parts of his armor. “Around your neck like that, It’s no more than a trinket.” He found a place to sit and clean his blade from the day’s battle. “But you know that.”

Westa looked over and saw him smiling to himself. 

“It may come as a shock you, but yes, I do know the single most basic principle of enchanted items.” She evaded his comments as she twirled the ring between her fingers. “But thank you for your concern.” 

Westa sighed quietly and shook her head. That wouldn’t do. Stroud hadn’t really earned her ire, at least not yet, and neither of them knew how much longer they’d need to maintain working and traveling together. 

“It reminds me of Carver,” she admitted. 

“Ah,” Stroud uttered softly, and after a moment, “Here I’d hoped it held a different sort of sentimental value.” 

“Why would it?” Hawke deflected his nonthreatening yet forward overture. 

“There’s no reason it would.” He paused, and the silence between them hung heavy in the warm air. “In Kirkwall, during the Qunari attack,” Stroud focused on his work as he spoke. “We’d only met twice, but I’d heard of you from your brother, from rumors in the Order. I knew I couldn’t stay, but I wanted to protect you somehow.” 

“I defended an entire city, and I did it more than once. I can protect myself,” she told him. 

“I know. It was... impulsive.” He looked at her. 

Stroud's eyes reminded Westa of a man she’d known in Lothering, though to call him a man at that age would have been generous. The lanky middle son of a struggling farmer, he had admired her strength and difference more than he feared it. When the darkspawn descended upon the village, she saw them pin him down and claw his face away as she and her family ran. 

Her thoughts raced to Sebastian. On days they traveled the coast together, or when he thought she was absorbed in reading, she would catch him watching her with the same fascination. She’d once hoped that meant she was more to him than an outlet for his idle flirtations and ideological battles. 

Westa became suddenly and achingly aware of the parts of herself her desire had eclipsed for so long. For all the accusations she hurled at Sebastian, it was her own insatiable loneliness that caged her. Her heart was a howling, wounded creature, and his scraps of affection kept it alive, but it remained always on the sharp edge of starvation. 

Now she stood before a man who had no wealth or station, no future except Blight and ruin, but who was earnest in his interest and clear in his intent. Whether his involvement would leave her better, worse, or simply different she didn’t know. 

“Warden Stroud,” she addressed him. 

“Jean-Marc,” he offered. 

“Jean-Marc,” she repeated, scarcely above a whisper. Her Fereldan accent felt clumsy and abrasive in her mouth. He watched her lips move through his name, then his eyes met hers again. 

“Westa,” she supplied. “My first name is Westa.” 

“Westa,” he said. “Please forgive me.” He sheathed his sword and set it aside. “You have enough to worry about. You needn't be burdened by an old man's foolish fantasies.” 

“You're not that old,” she told him. 

“I feel like I am.” Stroud ran a hand through his hair. “Regardless,” he began again, “I apologize if I've made you uncomfortable.” 

“You haven't,” Westa answered. “Not at all.” She walked over to him. “In truth, I've come to feel quite the opposite.” 

“You’re as gracious as you are beautiful,” he said. 

“Thank you,” she murmured as Stroud continued. 

“But you're too kind.” His weary tone suggested he meant this more as advisement than flattery. 

“I'm not being kind,” she said. “I’m being honest.” He looked up at her, and she elaborated. “It's a comfort to be wanted, and to be certain of it,” she said. “Thank you for your clarity, Jean Marc. Please don't mistake my lack of charm for a lack of interest.” 

She walked away and began to undress, peeling layers of frigid fabric from her body as much for safety as for any attempt at allure. She didn't flinch, though, when she looked back and saw Stroud watching her out of more than the corner of his eye. 

“All talk then, Warden?” she said over her shoulder. 

“Just appreciating the sight of you now that I know I'm allowed to,” he said. “It would be a shame to rush such a rare opportunity.” 

“That may be true,” Westa turned to face him, “but it hardly seems fair.” She waited for him to come to her before she started working at the clasps and buckles on what was left of his armor. 

He leaned toward her and brushed his thumb over her lips. He hesitated then, and his gaze lingered on her mouth. 

“May I?” 

She nodded and drew him into a kiss, and he took off the rest of his clothes as she ran her hands through his rain-wet, black hair and over the rough stubble on his jawline. 

He walked her backwards, and with his hand behind her head, he pressed her back against the cool cave wall. She wrapped her arms around his neck and her legs around his waist, holding herself up so he didn't need to lift her. 

“Shit, you're strong,” he said. He placed his other hand on her lower back. 

“Thanks for noticing.” She laughed, and he kissed her neck while he tilted his hips up and eased inside her. She turned her face up, and he rested his forehead against the hollow of her throat. 

Westa reveled in the feeling of him moaning into her skin, and she answered with sounds of her own until their voices echoed off the walls and back to them. In the midst of war and chaos, they reached for something to still the churning thoughts that threatened to pull them both under, and they found it in each other. 

“Say my name,” he asked and pressed her harder against the wall until she could feel the scrape of stone against her back.

“Jean-Marc,” she squeezed her thighs around him and pulled him in closer.

“Say it again,” he panted and raised his head to look her in the eye.

Westa gasped at the depth of his next thrust, and she felt suddenly exposed by his dark hazel eyes on hers.

“Say it,” he repeated. “Please.”

“Jean-Marc--” His name barely escaped her lips before her cries overwhelmed it. She shut her eyes against the intensity of his stare, and she turned her face away as her orgasm rolled through her body. Outside, rain continued to pour down from the crackling, Fade-torn sky.

Westa kissed his lips again and loosened her grip around his neck. He held her steady until she could stretch her legs down, and he made sure her feet were solidly beneath her before he let her go.

“Is everything okay?” Stroud swept her hair back from her face and tucked it behind her ear. He pressed a kiss to her temple and cupped her face in his hand.

Westa avoided his eyes, unsure of the answer to his question.

“You look troubled. I hope--”

She laid her hand on his cheek and kissed him gently, then took his hand in hers and led him to her bedroll. She wasn’t one to offer platitudes, and her misgivings had little to do with him. She would reassure him the same way she contemplated her own situation; silently.

She sat between his legs and focused on the rise and fall of his steady breathing while he massaged the tense muscles in her back.

“That’s kind of you,” she commented.

“It's the least I can do,” he replied and pressed a kiss to the back of her neck. "A woman of your station deserves better than to sleep on the ground."

"I'm no stranger to nights at camp," she said. "Despite what my current station may suggest, I didn't always have my own estate. Hell, half the time, I didn't have my own bed." Westa paused at the memory of Bethany's tiny, hot feet sticking to the back of her legs on the worst humid summer nights in Lothering, or maybe the town before. She shook her head. "Suffice it to say I've suffered worse accommodations, though I do admire your chivalry," she laughed.

“I was trained as a chevalier for a short time,” he smiled. "It was another life, but I suppose some attitudes stay with you, though I'm glad not many of them."

Westa closed her eyes as he worked on a particularly stubborn knot in her shoulder. "So they really are as terrible as people say?" she asked. "I mean, you don't have to tell me if you don't want to." 

"They're worse," he answered. "Now isn't the time, but one of these days I'll tell you what they're really like."

"I've heard stories," she said.

"They're probably true, and probably not the worst of it," he told her as he used his thumbs on the delicate muscles in her neck.

Westa nodded slightly, enough that he'd feel it under his hands but not so much that it would disrupt him. "I can believe that," she said, "unfortunate as it may be."

That sat in silence until Westa realized that Stroud had stopped rubbing her back and started braiding her damp hair in what felt like a plaited crown.

“I’m surprised you know how to do that,” Westa murmured as she drifted closer and closer toward sleep. “Something else they taught you in your chevalier training?” she joked.

“No,” he answered solemnly, “I used to have a little sister.”

“Me too,” was her quiet reply.


	9. Chapter 8 (SFW)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Recommended Listening: Tia Blake - Black is the Colour

_Hawke,_

_It looks like whatever’s going on with the Wardens is related to Corypheus. You know, the Corypheus we killed. Turns out it didn’t take as well as we’d thought. I didn’t want you to get involved in this Inquisition shit, but I thought you might take it personally if I didn’t mention it. Write back soon._

_Varric_

  


“What’s it like?” Westa spoke softly as she cradled Stroud’s head in her lap.

“What’s what like, mon coeur?” Stroud feigned ignorance.

“The Calling, Jean-Marc.”

They’d been hiding out for weeks when Varric’s messenger found them, and Hawke felt responsible for the Warden, doubly so when she found out Corypheus was involved.

“What’s it like?” she repeated.

“I don’t want to tell you,” he said. He took her hand and laid it on his cheek, then pressed a kiss to her palm. “I don’t want you thinking about it.”

“Please,” Hawke looked into his dark eyes. “I’m already thinking about it.” She traced the planes of his face with her other hand and trailed her fingers down his neck, trying to commit each detail to memory.

“It’s like singing,” he relented, “but constant, deafening.” He closed his eyes. “It’s compelling, like it’s drawing me into madness, dragging me into oblivion,” he continued. “I have feared a great deal in my life, but nothing so much as I fear this.”

“I’m sorry I can't do more to help you.” She pushed his hair back from his brow and ran her fingers through it in long, steady motions.

“Don’t be sorry,” he told her. “You do enough. You anchor me to this earth.” His eyes were dark and glassy when he looked up at her.

“You might be a little delirious.” She pressed her hand to his forehead and felt feverish warmth beneath cold sweat.

“Delirious or not, it’s true.” Stroud maintained. He saw his fear and anguish reflected in her eyes, though perhaps, he thought, Westa had grief enough of her own.

Since she arrived in Crestwood, Westa’s initial reserve had deteriorated just as rapidly as Stroud’s condition. All her life, she’d tried not to let her guard down or form attachments to people. Times like this reminded her why.

“If I make it stop, will you stay?” she asked him.

“I don’t understand…” He closed his eyes and placed his hand over hers.

“If I stop the false Calling, will you stay with me?” she asked again, her voice cracking into a hoarse whisper.

“You can’t,” he told her. “Even if you could, I have a responsibility to the Order.”

“They don’t deserve you.” Her stomach twisted, but she pushed back against her anger and kept her voice steady. “The ungrateful bastards are hunting you,” she said.

“They would never turn this way, not all at once, if they didn’t believe they acted in the service of some higher virtue,” he said. “They are wrong, but still,” he persisted. “I have a duty to save them from themselves if I can.”

“And what of you?” she challenged him, silently condemning the same honor and principle she loved in him. “You are exceptional, but you are not invincible,” she said. “Whose duty is it to save you from yourself?”

“You already have.” He reached up to bring her face down to his.

“No, I haven’t,” she refused, “but I will.” She leaned forward to kiss him then, and the ring around her neck swung like a pendulum between them.

He sat up and kissed her again, and he pushed her tunic up her waist to put his hands on her skin. She laid her hand on his chest.

“You need to rest,” she told him.

“I’ll rest when I’m dead,” he said grimly.

“Please don’t talk like that,” Westa said. “I’m trying to be practical.”

“Fine.” Stroud relented and sat next to her with his back against the wall. “I won’t say anything more, but I’m not going to lie down and wait for death to take me.”

“I don’t want you to,” she said, “but you’re not well.”

“Ah, you were being polite,” Stroud said. “I’m sorry I misunderstood you. I’ll let you be.”

“No, I--” she sighed. “I don’t want to be selfish with you,” she admitted. “At least not more than I already have been.”

“What are you talking about?” he shook his head. “No, come here.” He took her hand gently. “Come here,” he repeated.

She turned to him, and he slid his hand up into her hair as he kissed her. They shed their clothes as they had every night they’d spent together in the dark and damp. She straddled his lap and pressed her chest against his.

“You’re burning up,” she told him between kisses.

“Maybe you’re just cold.” He pressed the backs of her hands to his cheeks.

“Both can be true,” she said as he guided her hands to his neck.

“I’m okay,” he reassured her, but she didn’t look any more at ease. “If nothing else, this is at least giving me some relief,” he laughed, and she moved her hands down his chest.

“You don’t need me,” she smiled. “Go stand in the wind for a minute, you’ll cool off just as well.”

“All right, I’ll go stand naked in the elements.” He tapped his hands against her thighs.

“No, don’t be like this,” She laughed and wrapped her arms around his neck. “I was joking!”

“It was a good idea!” He tried to get up off the ground, but Westa didn’t move. “I guess I’ll have to take you with me, then.” He wrapped one arm around her back and one under her thigh.

“Hey, take it easy.” Westa tried to keep her tone lighthearted, but her worry was beginning to bite through their playful diversion. “I’m sure on a better day, you could haul me around Crestwood and back, but for now you need to save your strength,” she said.

“You’re right,” he admitted and pulled her closer. After a beat, he continued. “I could haul you around Crestwood and back,” he laughed.

“Really, though--” she looked at him.

“I know, I know.” He ran his hands over her back. “Relax. I’m not going anywhere.”

Westa took a deep breath. “I don’t mean to fret over you. I don’t know what else to do.”

“You don’t need to do anything,” he said. “Just be here with me.”

“I’m here,” she said. “That hardly seems enough, but I’m here.”

Stroud touched her face, and he looked deeper into her eyes than she’d ever allowed anyone. Until then, she’d been unwilling to have her emotions laid bare, flayed open and sacrificed on the altar of her lover’s gaze. Now, she would deny him nothing, and she let him sift through everything he made her feel.

“You are so different from who I thought you would be,” he said.

“Is that a good thing?” she asked.

“It is the best thing.” He slid his hands up her back and kissed her.

“Mon coeur, ma passion.” He mumbled Orlesian endearments into her hair and into her kisses. “You drown out the Blight,” he told her, although she could see in his eyes that it wasn’t entirely true. “There will never be words enough to tell you what you are to me.”

“I don’t need them,” she whispered. “I know.”

He unclasped the chain from behind her neck and let the ring fall into the palm of his hand. He brought it to his lips before sliding it onto her finger.

“Ma vie.”


	10. Chapter 8 (Explicit)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Recommended Listening: Tia Blake - Black is the Colour

_Hawke,_

_It looks like whatever’s going on with the Wardens is related to Corypheus. You know, the Corypheus we killed. Turns out it didn’t take as well as we’d thought. I didn’t want you to get involved in this Inquisition shit, but I thought you might take it personally if I didn’t mention it. Write back soon._

_Varric_

  


“What’s it like?” Westa spoke softly as she cradled Stroud’s head in her lap.

“What’s what like, mon coeur?” Stroud feigned ignorance.

“The Calling, Jean-Marc.”

They’d been hiding out for weeks when Varric’s messenger found them, and Hawke felt responsible for the Warden, doubly so when she found out Corypheus was involved.

“What’s it like?” she repeated.

“I don’t want to tell you,” he said. He took her hand and laid it on his cheek, then pressed a kiss to her palm. “I don’t want you thinking about it.”

“Please,” Hawke looked into his dark eyes. “I’m already thinking about it.” She traced the planes of his face with her other hand and trailed her fingers down his neck, trying to commit each detail to memory.

“It’s like singing,” he relented, “but constant, deafening.” He closed his eyes. “It’s compelling, like it’s drawing me into madness, dragging me into oblivion,” he continued. “I have feared a great deal in my life, but nothing so much as I fear this.”

“I’m sorry I can't do more to help you.” She pushed his hair back from his brow and ran her fingers through it in long, steady motions.

“Don’t be sorry,” he told her. “You do enough. You anchor me to this earth.” His eyes were dark and glassy when he looked up at her.

“You might be a little delirious.” She pressed her hand to his forehead and felt feverish warmth beneath cold sweat.

“Delirious or not, it’s true.” Stroud maintained. He saw his fear and anguish reflected in her eyes, though perhaps, he thought, Westa had grief enough of her own.

Since she arrived in Crestwood, Westa’s initial reserve had deteriorated just as rapidly as Stroud’s condition. All her life, she’d tried not to let her guard down or form attachments to people. Times like this reminded her why.

“If I make it stop, will you stay?” she asked him.

“I don’t understand…” He closed his eyes and placed his hand over hers.

“If I stop the false Calling, will you stay with me?” she asked again, her voice cracking into a hoarse whisper.

“You can’t,” he told her. “Even if you could, I have a responsibility to the Order.”

“They don’t deserve you.” Her stomach twisted, but she pushed back against her anger and kept her voice steady. “The ungrateful bastards are hunting you,” she said.

“They would never turn this way, not all at once, if they didn’t believe they acted in the service of some higher virtue,” he said. “They are wrong, but still,” he persisted. “I have a duty to save them from themselves if I can.”

“And what of you?” she challenged him, silently condemning the same honor and principle she loved in him. “You are exceptional, but you are not invincible,” she said. “Whose duty is it to save you from yourself?”

“You already have.” He reached up to bring her face down to his.

“No, I haven’t,” she refused, “but I will.” She leaned forward to kiss him then, and the ring around her neck swung like a pendulum between them.

He sat up and kissed her again, and he pushed her tunic up her waist to put his hands on her skin. She laid her hand on his chest.

“You need to rest,” she told him.

“I’ll rest when I’m dead,” he said grimly.

“Please don’t talk like that,” Westa said. “I’m trying to be practical.”

“Fine.” Stroud relented and sat next to her with his back against the wall. “I won’t say anything more, but I’m not going to lie down and wait for death to take me.”

“I don’t want you to,” she said, “but you’re not well.”

“Ah, you were being polite,” Stroud said. “I’m sorry I misunderstood you. I’ll let you be.”

“No, I--” she sighed. “I don’t want to be selfish with you,” she admitted. “At least not more than I already have been.”

“What are you talking about?” he shook his head. “No, come here.” He took her hand gently. “Come here,” he repeated.

She turned to him, and he slid his hand up into her hair as he kissed her. They shed their clothes as they had every night they’d spent together in the dark and damp. She straddled his lap and pressed her chest against his.

“You’re burning up,” she told him between kisses.

“Maybe you’re just cold.” He pressed the backs of her hands to his cheeks.

“Both can be true,” she said as he guided her hands to his neck.

“I’m okay,” he reassured her, but she didn’t look any more at ease. “If nothing else, this is at least giving me some relief,” he laughed, and she moved her hands down his chest.

“You don’t need me,” she smiled. “Go stand in the wind for a minute, you’ll cool off just as well.”

“All right, I’ll go stand naked in the elements.” He tapped his hands against her thighs.

“No, don’t be like this,” She laughed and wrapped her arms around his neck. “I was joking!”

“It was a good idea!” He tried to get up off the ground, but Westa didn’t move. “I guess I’ll have to take you with me, then.” He wrapped one arm around her back and one under her thigh.

“Hey, take it easy.” Westa tried to keep her tone lighthearted, but her worry was beginning to bite through their playful diversion. “I’m sure on a better day, you could haul me around Crestwood and back, but for now you need to save your strength,” she said.

“You’re right,” he admitted and pulled her closer. After a beat, he continued. “I could haul you around Crestwood and back,” he laughed.

“Really, though--” she looked at him.

“I know, I know.” He ran his hands over her back. “Relax. I’m not going anywhere.”

Westa took a deep breath. “I don’t mean to fret over you. I don’t know what else to do.”

“You don’t need to do anything,” he said. “Just be here with me.”

“I’m here,” she said. “That hardly seems enough, but I’m here.”

Stroud touched her face, and he looked deeper into her eyes than she’d ever allowed anyone. Until then, she’d been unwilling to have her emotions laid bare, flayed open and sacrificed on the altar of her lover’s gaze. Now, she would deny him nothing, and she let him sift through everything he made her feel.

“You are so different from who I thought you would be,” he said.

“Is that a good thing?” she asked.

“It is the best thing.” He slid his hands up her back and kissed her. “You are the best thing that has happened to me in a long time, maybe ever.”

Westa couldn’t put the words together to return the sentiment, but she nodded and put her hands on his shoulders. Stroud slipped his hand between their bodies and reached between her legs. She tilted her head back.

“Your hands are so warm,” she said. “I wish you weren’t unwell, but they feel incredible.” She leaned into his touch. 

“Where do you want them?” he asked, and her hand was already on his wrist, guiding him across her body. Her eyelids fluttered as his fingers grazed her skin, and she settled his left hand on her breast as she rolled her hips against his right. She moaned and felt him press up against her, and she moved his hand aside to slide herself onto him. When she looked back up at him, he had two fingers in his mouth. A shiver ran up her spine, and he smiled and steadied her with his left hand on her lower back. He slid his right hand up to the base of her neck, and she put her hand over his to close his fingers around a fistful of her hair. 

“Just a little,” she said. 

“I’ll be gentle,” he replied and tightened his grip slowly until she nodded. He held her stare as she rocked her hips against his, and he watched her expressions change as she controlled the rhythm of their union. He moaned low in his chest, and she felt the vibrations from it in her own body.

“Does that feel good?” she asked, and he nodded.

“Tell me, Jean-Marc,” she said, and he moaned again. 

“Your voice is going to make me come,” he said with a ragged breath. 

“I know, Jean-Marc,” she told him softly. “Show me.”

She held his face in both her hands, and he cried out sharply as he arched his hips up into her. She locked eyes with him and pushed herself over the edge of her own release, then they wrapped their arms around each other.

“Mon coeur, ma passion.” He mumbled Orlesian endearments into her hair and into her kisses. “You drown out the Blight,” he told her, although she could see in his eyes that it wasn’t entirely true. “There will never be words enough to tell you what you are to me.”

“I don’t need them,” she whispered. “I know.”

He unclasped the chain from behind her neck and let the ring fall into the palm of his hand. He brought it to his lips before sliding it onto her finger.

“Ma vie.”


	11. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Recommended listening: Lord Huron - The Night We Met

_Sebastian,_

_There's no good way to tell you this. Hawke is gone. I know you cared about her, even if you did have a funny way of showing it._

_It's hard to explain. We were in the Fade, coming back through. She was right behind me, then she wasn't. She sacrificed herself to protect us, to protect everyone. We knew we were getting into something serious, but when has that ever stopped Hawke? You know how she is, leaping into battle. But she always comes out on top. She's the Champion._

_I don't know what else to say besides I'm sorry. I should have never dragged her into this._

_Varric_

  


Sebastian shut himself away when the news arrived from Adamant Fortress. When he lost his family, he'd had the Kirkwall Chantry to turn to, flawed and broken as it was. When that, too, fell in a blast of fury and flame, he’d still had Hawke. 

They’d had their fair share of close calls throughout the years, but no matter what new challenge they walked into, they walked in together. Whatever threat faced them, she was there, tearing through heaven and earth with her magic, and he was there to fire the arrow that stood between her and a grisly death. He’d always feared one day he’d miss his mark and things would end differently. Retaking Starkhaven had meant separating from her, no matter how hard he’d tried to find a way to avoid it. With their parting came a new fear; he wouldn’t be there to take the shot at all. 

Regret gnawed at him, and he questioned whether the strain of her efforts to see him and the aftermath of their disputes had left her rattled and made her reckless. Perhaps if he had done things differently, she might have stayed. He blamed himself for pushing her away as much as he blamed Varric and the Inquisition for enlisting her help. 

Still, he knew she would have gone after Corypheus, with or without him, and with or without the Inquisition. Perhaps nothing he could have done would have changed anything. Perhaps that uncertainty was part of the reason he couldn't bear to let her go. He sat down to draft a reply. 

  


_Varric,_

_~~You’re absolutely right. You should have never dragged her~~ _  
_~~You were supposed to protect her~~ _  
_~~How could you let her~~ _  
_~~How many times have I told you people~~ _  
_~~This is why you don’t fuck with the Fade~~ _  
_~~It should have been someone else~~ _  
_~~I’m sorry I wasn’t there~~ _  
_~~I’m sorry~~ _

  


He crumpled the parchment and tossed it on the floor. “What am I supposed to say?” He asked aloud. He sat at his desk for hours, staring at another blank parchment before finally writing again. 

  


_Varric,_

_Thank you for letting me know._

_Sebastian_

  


He sealed it and set it aside, then he hung his head in his hands and took a deep breath. Shock and duty had suppressed his tears, but they rushed forward now, and his shoulders shook with the force of all his compounded grief coming to the surface in ugly, gut-wrenching sobs that cut through the quiet and echoed through the castle halls. She was gone, and for the first time since he'd met her, he was truly and utterly alone. 


	12. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Recommended Listening: The National - I Need My Girl

_Inquisitor Trevelyan,_

_I am grateful for your support of the Grey Warden Order and for your efforts to restore peace to southern Thedas. It is a noble goal, if an ambitious one._

_As you know, the Champion of Kirkwall stayed behind in the Fade to ensure our safe escape and the continued success of your organization. As such, I believe the Inquisition now has a responsibility to follow up on Fade-related activity in Thedas in anticipation of the Champion’s return._

_Should you believe her survival impossible, consider that you have walked the raw Fade twice yourself and come out unscathed, to the best of all our knowledge, save for the mark on your hand. You have seen the Champion in battle yourself, and I don’t think you would argue that she is an incredibly gifted mage. If anyone could outlast all the demons in the Fade, it would be Westa Hawke._

_I would ask that Inquisition share the locations of active rifts in Thedas, and I would offer the forces of the Grey Warden Order for the task of guarding them for demons and restless spirits until you arrive to properly seal them. I hope this proposal suits The Inquisition, as I must admit I have a personal interest in seeing this matter through to resolution._

_Humbly yours,_

_Senior Warden Jean-Marc Stroud_

  


“I’m not giving up on her.” Stroud met with the Inquisition leadership after nightfall, all parties aware of the Wardens’ growing unpopularity in light of their involvement with the Elder One. 

“I understand.” The Inquisitor rubbed her temples, increasingly overburdened as their cause wore on. “But I cannot divert any more resources to the Wardens,” she explained. Cullen nodded; they’d lost enough.

“My requests are not outrageous, Inquisitor,” Stroud insisted. “I want a map of rifts known to the Inquisition and I want to be updated on any rift activity. I’m sure others are already receiving this information.”

“Yes,” Leliana stepped forward, “but how do we know we can trust you with it?” The spymaster leaned over the War Table.

“I am not Clarel.” Stroud leveled his gaze at her, unintimidated. “The Order’s ties to Corypheus were unfortunate, but I assure you they have been severed.” 

“What happened at Adamant was horrific,” Josephine interceded, “but what exactly is the risk of granting Warden Stroud’s request, save for the potential backlash of allying with the Wardens, which we have already poised ourselves to incur?” she asked.

“Proximity to demons for binding rituals or blood sacrifices.” Cullen clarified. “But I trust the remaining Wardens would be opposed to treading that path again.” He knew how a fracture in an order affected the people within it, and he had to believe proper leadership could steer events in a better direction.

“If you trust them, I trust them.” The Inquisitor stood up straight and smoothed the front of her clothes. Cullen looked taken aback.

“There’s no need to defer to me--” he stuttered.

“I’m not deferring anything,” she interrupted him. “Leliana questions everyone. It’s her job.” Leliana stepped back with a smirk and a slight shrug of her shoulders. “Just as it’s Josephine’s job to predict the risks and ramifications of our every action.” The Inquisitor gave due credit to the ambassador and felt a wash of gratitude for her expertise in dealing with the tangled web of Thedas’ politics. 

She looked around at her advisors, her eyes lingering on Cullen and settling there. “And you are my chief military strategist, not to mention one of the most naturally suspicious people I know.” She looked at him. 

“If any of you felt strongly that this was a poor choice, you’d have said so by now.” She read her advisors’ personalities adeptly, knowing how keen each of them was to offer their opinion, and how passionately they defended it when they felt it mattered. 

“If none of you see a danger, I’m willing to wager there isn’t one. There’s no sense wasting time debating something we all agree upon. I trust you.” Cullen nodded, still flushed and flustered by the sudden onslaught of attention. 

“Get the maps drawn up and work the Wardens into our messengers’ routes.” She turned to Leliana, who looked pleased. 

“Stroud,” the Inquisitor addressed him crisply. “I look forward to our continued alliance with the Grey Wardens.”

“As do I, Inquisitor,” he replied, relieved by her leniency but wary of the unstable politics it embroiled him in.

The Inquisitor breezed out of the War Room, and Stroud followed. Cullen waited for his fellow advisors to exit ahead of him. 

“You go on, Commander.” Leliana shooed him. “Josie and I have some… catching up to do.” she and Josephine shared a loaded glance and erupted into a fit of giggles, though Josephine did her best to hide her face behind her large clipboard. 

Cullen walked out, nearly as red as his pauldrons, and Leliana, still snickering, shut the door behind him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oof, sorry I left y'all on such a rough chapter! Work, school, etc. puts a strain on my time such that I'm having trouble finding time just to format and post things, much less edit them. I may crank the rest of this out on a faster schedule just to get it all out there so I can move on to other projects I'd like to get rolling. Be on the lookout for more frequent updates! <3


	13. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Recommended Listening: Joni Mitchell - I Think I Understand

_And the Voice of the Maker shook the Fade_  
_Saying: “In My image I have wrought_  
_My firstborn. You have been given dominion_  
_Over all that exists. By your will_  
_All things are done._  
_Yet you do nothing._  
_The realm I have given you_  
_Is formless, ever-changing.”_

_And He knew He had wrought amiss._

_-Canticle of Threnodies 5:4-5_

  


Westa steeled herself against the Fear demon’s onslaught, alternating between restorative spells, protective wards, and calculated attacks. She entered a meditative state when she battled, controlling what had been, in her youth, unbridled rage and animalistic terror.

With time, she’d learned to breathe into and through her aggression. She’d learned to use the tunneled vision it gave her to focus rather than allow it to alarm her further. The most valuable lesson she’d learned, though, was to pace herself and watch her own defenses instead of burning out uncontrollably, spiralling unchecked until she was spent. 

She drew from the well of her own magic, made only stronger by her presence in the Fade, where there was no Veil, no barrier to overcome. She channeled the raw power into each assault. Here in combat, where her magic need not be concealed or contained, she found freedom. 

Elsewhere in the Fade, a spirit stirred. 

“A Hawke is here! One is really here, physically in the Fade!” her friends clamored around her. “I have to meet her! Or help her? I don’t know!” she streaked past them. “I have to go!” 

She flew past the jagged outcroppings of black rock and hissing swells of steam, dodging the wretched creatures that emerged during the Fade’s recent upheavals. After a time, she closed in on her ally, who struggled against the embodiment of Fear. Though she held the monster at bay, the spirit knew it would overpower her in time as the trepidation of every being in the Fade and every anxious dreamer beyond it fed its strength. 

“Hawke!” she called out. The mage lost her footing and scrambled to sidestep a long, oozing claw. The spirit hurled a panicked shout in her direction, “Tunnel!”

Westa clambered up the rocks and tried to determine what the spirit was trying to tell her. She scanned the terrain but saw no tunnel. She thought maybe the spirit once knew this part of the Fade but it had since changed shape. 

Then, in a single flash of insight, she understood it was a command and not an observation. The ground beneath her collapsed, and as it crumbled, she willed an opening wide enough for her to fall through but not so wide that the fear demon could give chase. The spirit dove after her and narrowly avoided Fear’s snapping jaws. 

Suspended in free fall, Westa gawked at the hovering spirit, but saw only a faint glow in the blackness. “Where does it end?”

“Wherever you expect it to,” her new companion answered to the best of her knowledge. Hawke saw the tunnel opening approaching and squeezed her eyes shut in anticipation of the fall. They emerged, swiftly reversed direction, and landed with a thwack on what had become the plane of the ground.

“Good thinking,” the spirit commended her. Hawke stood and brushed herself off, shaken but unharmed. When she looked at the spirit and saw her fully for the first time, its appearance astonished her. Head to toe, she was identical to Hawke herself, but cast entirely out of shimmering, translucent silver. 

“What are you?” she asked, appreciative of the assistance but apprehensive about accepting further help from the residents of the Fade.

“You may call me…” the spectre took a moment to consider. “I believe the best word in Common for what I am is ‘Security,” she answered. “You may call me that if it pleases you.” 

“Why do you look like me?” Hawke questioned, still mistrustful. The gauzy spirit swirled in an unrestful circle.

“I... um...” she stuttered, still flitting about. “I watch you from the Fade. Your whole family, really,” she confessed. “I know only a few forms, and I thought this one would disturb you the least.”

“What are the other options?” Hawke pressed further, wondering why it thought becoming a mirror image of her would be the least disturbing choice.

“The only other one I’m any good at holding is Malcolm’s” the spirit offered bashfully. 

“You’re right. No, thank you.” Hawke had little interest in traveling the Fade with something that looked like her dead father.

“My normal form is not very strong… or graceful…” Security explained. “I can’t do much with it besides… just be.”

Hawke’s father used to lull her and the twins to sleep with verses from the Chant of Light. He didn’t want them to be afraid of the Fade, and in hindsight, he was probably trying to sear those passages into the girls’ memories to prepare them for the spirits and demons that would eventually court them in their dreams. 

In those verses, the downfall of the Maker’s first children was their lack of imagination. Hawke didn’t suspect this one intended to harm her, or that its plan could be this complex if it did.

“Come with me, then.” Hawke brushed past Security and started walking. 


	14. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Recommended listening: Dustin Tebbut - The Breach

_To His Royal Highness Crown Prince Sebastian Vael,_

_The Inquisition would ask a favor of Your Highness. In their efforts to combat the dark magic of Corypheus and The Breach, our arcane researchers found reference to a text written by Former Lady Seeker Alandra Vael titled The True Threat of Magic. We believe the text contains information that would prove vital to our cause. Unfortunately, we have been unable to locate it in our libraries at Skyhold. The libraries of the Seekers of Truth are unavailable to us, which leads us to reach out to you._

_We understand the situation in the Free Marches and why you may feel it unwise to travel to Ferelden at this time. Additionally, we do not wish to inconvenience your staff. As such, we would propose that a small group of representatives accompany our Inquisitor on a formal visit to our treasured allies in Starkhaven, at which time we might borrow or copy the book at your discretion. Thank you for your time and for your continued commitment to seeing order restored._

_Andraste guide you,  
Ambassador Josephine Montilyet_

 

“It is a piece of my family’s history,” Sebastian remarked, “but if it aids the Inquisition, I will gladly part with it for as long as you can make use of it.” 

Cassandra looked around the castle’s library, scowling at titles but lost in other thoughts. “It is unfortunate the Seekers of Truth are not in a position to offer the text,” she said. “I would think it has less sentimental value to them than it does to you.”

“We’re in the process of locating the remaining Seekers,” the Inquisitor explained. She knew how heavily the situation weighed on Cassandra’s mind. “But the Breach is our focus, as always,” she reassured Sebastian.

“Especially since it swallowed Hawke,” Varric added. 

“Yes,” Sebastian reflected. “She was a dear friend.”

Varric let out a single, sharp laugh. 

Sebastian knew Varric never missed an opportunity to offer his commentary, and his placid facade remained intact despite Varric’s protest. 

Dorian looked up from his reading and arched his eyebrows. He sensed Varric had a few stories to tell later, or at least a challenge to the Prince’s interpretation of events. 

“The new Warden-Commander seems to think he can pull Lady Hawke out of the Fade himself.” Inquisitor Trevelyan purposely stoked the fire Varric had lit, guessing she read his objection correctly. 

“Unlikely,” Cassandra scoffed, unaware of the conflict unfolding. She glanced around the room apologetically, as if she hadn’t intended to say as much out loud. “Noble,” she added, “but unlikely.”

Sebastian felt his breath catch in his throat. It hadn’t occurred to him that she might still be alive. The Fade was a place of legends and nightmares, and he never imagined someone trapped behind the Veil would be worth holding out hope for. He knew little of such things, and he’d believed what he’d been told about the Fade; that it was dangerous and foolish to tamper with, that such endeavors brought only ruin to humanity and blighted the souls of men prideful enough to pursue them. 

“She’s surprised us before,” Varric said soberly. “She just might surprise us again.” He looked at the Inquisitor.

“And I’ve seen men do dafter things in the name of love.” Dorian followed the Inquisitor's lead and encouraged the drama unfolding in the library. 

“I’m sure Hawke attracted a great many admirers during her travels.” Sebastian collected himself and pressed on with their meeting. He refused to be baited by rumors and lies.

“True,” Trevelyan conceded, leveling her gaze at him for a fleeting moment, “but I got the impression their ‘admiration’ was mutual.” She spoke to him as she spoke to nobles and templars in her days before the Inquisition, cordial enough to deny malicious intent but distant enough not to invite accusations of flattery. It was a balancing act Sebastian knew well, but had never truly mastered. He was too transparent, too honest and eager to speak his mind.

“They certainly argued like a couple.” Varric shot a barbed look at Sebastian, whose pleasant mask slipped further with each comment. 

Cassandra interrupted with a noise that was a cross between a scoff, a grunt, and a retch. “Did no one else see the ring?” she interjected. The rest of the party looked taken aback.

“I hadn’t, had you?” Trevelyan looked at Dorian, whose archivist work normally lent him a sharp eye for details. 

“No,” he replied, “I must have been too busy killing demons and Venatori.”

“Ugh!” Cassandra exclaimed. “I didn’t see it when we first met her, but when she took her gloves off at Adamant, it was there!” She sounded more disgusted than touched. “I suspected it was him.”

“Jealous, Seeker?” Varric chided her but looked directly at Sebastian. Cassandra’s cheeks flushed pink in embarrassment.

“Not at all,” she replied haughtily, crossing her arms and looking out the stained-glass window.

“Looks like we didn’t know Hawke as well as we thought we did.” Varric shrugged. 

Sebastian got the impression that Varric had, in fact, known this information and had purposely kept it from him. Envy crawled through every corner of his consciousness, but he was determined not to lose face.

“Hawke’s romantic exploits hardly seem important now.” Sebastian did his best to claim the moral high ground despite his head swimming with questions. 

“They always were to her.” Varric volleyed back and silently wished he'd never agreed to see Sebastian again after he'd successfully avoided him for this long.

The rest of the party knew by now that the conversation had devolved into something they could no longer participate in. As much as the Inquisitor wanted to watch the scene play out, she needed to preserve their alliance and their access to the information they needed. She couldn't let her curiosity get the better off her when so much was at stake.

“Gentlemen,” she cut in quietly and sweetly, but her voice carried an undertone of warning as grave as the first rippling echoes of distant thunder. She said nothing else, leaving the rest of her directive implied and any potential breach of etiquette avoided. 

Sebastian heeded her, still quietly seething. Varric looked at him and searched for the value Westa saw in him that made her waste what little time and energy she’d had left after she worked herself to the bone.

“My apologies, Inquisitor.” Sebastian turned to her. “I only wished to inquire about an old friend.” He offered the Inquisitor a slight bow of his head. 

“She wasn’t your friend.” Varric started up again. 

Sebastian hoped Varric would soon tire of taking shots at him, but he knew him well enough to know that wasn’t likely. “Varric, this petty behavior is beneath both of us,” he said. “If you have something to say to me, say it plainly. Otherwise, let us finish the business at hand and part ways.”

“She was never your friend. She was your plaything, you entitled swine.” Varric refused to back down. He'd always been suspicious of Sebastian, for many of the same reasons Aveline found him intolerable. With Westa gone, he had no reason to hold back anymore.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.” Sebastian’s guilt tempered his jealousy and his wrath, and the waves of emotion left him more exhausted than anything else. “You have no idea--”

“It’s pretty clear you don’t either!” Varric shouted. “You are so self-absorbed--”

“Varric!” Cassandra snapped, concerned he had gone too far and embarrassed to think she might have unknowingly worsened the situation.

“Forget it.” Varric pivoted and walked out of the room, leaving the rest of the Inquisition to salvage their partnership with the Prince. 

“I apologize for Varric.” Trevelyan offered after a moment. “We’re all under a tremendous amount of stress trying to close the Breach and outwit Corypheus.” She shifted her weight lightly from one foot to the other while she eyed him.

“I’ve already forgiven him. Moreover, I apologize that you all had to play witness to our shared history.” Sebastian regarded the Inquisitor and her remaining agents coolly. It would do him no favors to appear ungracious now, when any political misstep could damage his reputation before it even got off the ground. However, there was a limit to the courtesy that diplomatic etiquette demanded he extend, and the Inquisition had passed that mark by a long shot. 

“Now if you don’t mind, I won’t delay you any longer,” he said. “I believe you have what you came here to borrow, and you’ll probably want to catch up with Varric. He’s not known to wait up for anyone when he walks off like that.”

Sebastian watched the guilty parties file out before he made his way to the garden to clear his head.


End file.
